If This Was a Movie
by inlovewiththeboywholived
Summary: A one shot in which Harry reflects on his breakup with Draco early one morning.


_Last night I heard my own heart beating, sounded like footsteps on my stairs. Six months gone, and I'm still reaching, even though I know you're not there._

Harry awoke with a start, a sort of perverse mirror image of the years when he'd sat bolt upright in bed, his hand clapped over a scar that no longer tingled or burned. Now, though, his hand went to his mouth to stifle the scream of agony awaiting him.

Automatically, his hand reached out for Draco's, the way he always did when he had a nightmare. But Draco wasn't there. He hadn't been for a long time. His heart raced at the mere thought of that bloody name, and for a second, he could have believed that Draco was racing up his stairs again. He wasn't, Harry knew that, and he probably never would again.

"_**Draco, please, just listen-"**_

"_**Don't you get it? I'm not going to listen! It's over, Harry. Move on." **_

He wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight.

The clock read three a.m.. The witching hour. He almost laughed at that.

His limbs were still heavy with sleep, so he stared at the shadow-plagued ceiling, watching the dark shapes form into different aspects of Draco again and again. His jawline, his eyes, the way he raised his eyebrows just before he laughed...

_**You're going to make yourself sick again.**_

And yet, the swirl of pain continued (worse now, because the former thought had sounded like Draco. It was something he'd told Harry once, after Harry had been getting over the flu. Draco hadn't let him go to Auror training for another week). It was all in his head, he knew that. But when the pain was in your head, it was much harder to escape. You could heal a physical wound. But mental anguish like this (he refused to refer to it as a broken heart. He wasn't a teenaged girl)? Forget it.

So he laid there and pondered.

_Move on._ Two words that meant nothing at all. For, what exactly was 'on'? Was it a place? A state of being? And how did you get there?

Yet...they meant something, didn't they? They had to, because Draco would have had enough respect for Harry to give his parting words a deeper meaning.

Wouldn't he?

_I was playing back a thousand memories baby, thinking 'bout everything we've been through. Maybe I've been going back too much lately._

Tears now, hot and fresh, stung his eyes. He swore under his breath, mixing rage into his sorrow. He'd finished crying over the stupid prat long ago, and he wasn't about to start again.

His eyes had other ideas.

Slowly, images long-buried started to resurface.

Their first kiss.

Draco had pulled Harry aside after the battle. He'd come back, instead of running with his parents. He'd come back just to speak to Harry.

He'd told Harry everything, everything they'd both ever felt without wanting to admit it.

And they'd kissed.

It had been sweet, and strange, but it was the best kiss Harry had ever experienced. Hundreds of others flooded his time with Draco, but none of them were exactly the same as that first. There were better ones, yes, but in different aspects.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, shaking with the effort of holding back his grief. It was stupid, moronic, something he was supposed to be over.

The pictures in his head kept rolling.

_When time stood still, and I had you._

Draco laughing, Draco leaning in to kiss him, his expression exhilarated and terrified at the same time. Draco's little grin he always got before they fucked, before they both came so hard they couldn't breathe right for a long while after.

Draco.

Draco Draco Draco Draco Draco Draco.

Each repetition of the word was a fresh wound, a new gash to be taken care of.

Because Draco had left. Left Harry alone to deal with the pain, and the stress of being an open flamer, and not being able to move on because every other fag in London _was _Draco in some way, but not quite.

_I know people change and these things happen, but I remember how it was back then. Locked up in your arms, and our friends were laughing, because nothing like this ever happened to them._

When they'd told Hermione and Ron, and they'd been fine with it. Harry had been so worried, stammering and looking at his hands, and Draco had simply draped an arm across his shoulders and said; "We're together. If you've got a problem, I'm very sorry for your closed-mindedness."

The pain became too much to bear, and Harry threw himself out of bed, actually taking the time to make it up again, just for something to do. To avoid thinking for a few seconds.

He glanced at the clock. Three-thirty now. It was a Sunday, so he didn't have training. What was he going to do all day? Sitting around in his misery was out of the question.

_**Could start with a shower.**_

So he did, taking much longer than necessary, concentrating so hard on washing his hair that he accidentally did it four times.

_**That's good, keep busy. That's what worked before.**_

Eventually, the old pipes in his flat started spraying cold water, so he got out, wrapping a towel around his shivering frame. He'd lost a lot of weight in the beginning, and he was still fairly thin. Hermione had said that he looked old in the eyes, which was how he felt about it.

Like he'd aged a hundred years the day Draco had broken it off.

_**Stop that. Moping about isn't going to bring him back to you, it's only going to make you nauseous. **_

As before, scolding himself didn't work.

_Now I'm pacing down the hall, chasing down your street. Flash back to the night when you said to me; 'nothing's going to change, not for me and you.' Not before I knew how much I had to lose._

Why hadn't Harry gone after him? Draco had just walked out of the door, there had been time to grab his arm.

All those times Draco had sworn his love, followed by snogging and sometimes a fuck, meant nothing that night.

Harry had taken it all for granted, assumed that they would last forever, that here would be countless more chances to tell Draco how he felt.

But he hadn't.

And Draco had left.

Because of Harry.

Because he thought that he was putting Harry in danger.

Harry had pointed out that he could handle Death Eaters, but Draco wouldn't listen.

He was gone.

_And I say come back, come back, come back to me like you would before you said; 'it's not that easy.' Before the fight, before I locked you out. But I'd take it all back now.  
Come back, come back, come back to me like you would, you would if this was a movie. You'd stand in the rain outside until I came out._

They'd screamed and fought and given each other the silent treatment.

Draco had left.

Harry had told him to fuck off.

And he'd left.

Somehow, Harry had managed to dress. It was four now, according to the clock, which must have been broken, because surely years had passed.

He sank to the floor, sobs building in his throat, but he refused.

_**I'll get some coffee, and I'll be fine.**_

He made it into the kitchen, sort of catatonic, and made a mug of the strong black coffee Draco had always hated.

_**Stop bloody thinking about it!**_

But he couldn't, not now.

He'd glanced out the window.

And he'd seen the familiar blonde head bobbing up the walk.

_Come back, come back, come back to me like you would, you would if this was a movie. You'd stand in the rain outside until I came out._

He ran to the door, sloshing the hot liquid down his front – but it didn't burn. Nothing could hurt him in this second.

The door opened, and Harry tasted the kiss he thought he'd lost forever.

"Hey." Draco grinned, his hands around Harry's waist, like the past months hadn't happened at all. But so what? Maybe they hadn't. Draco was here, he was real, he was in Harry's arms.

"Hey."


End file.
